Could I Have This Dance? (54 page)

She kept whistling as she inserted the key, then looked up into the face of a man stepping out of the shadows beside the front door.

Claire screamed. The schnauzer next door barked.

And the man lifted his hands in the air.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

C
laire stumbled back off the porch as a second scream lodged in her throat. She rolled across the grass to get away from the man who continued to move forward.

Quickly, she was on her hands and knees, crawling, then standing to run.

“Claire!” The man’s voice was familiar. “Claire, it’s me!”

She squinted in the darkness. “Clay?” She breathed a sigh of relief and spat a blade of grass from her lips. “You scared me to death.”

“I thought you saw me when you drove up. I waved.”

“I—I didn’t see you,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?” She looked around. “How did you get here?”

“Long story,” he mumbled. “Do you think we could go inside? I’ve been sitting on my suitcase for two hours.”

She shook her head in amazement and began to brush off her skirt. “You owe me a pair of nylons.” She unlocked the door. “How’d you know I’d be home?”

“I asked John.”

“Cerelli?”
He keeps up with my schedule?

Clay nodded.

“Why not just ask me?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d invite me.”

“Ridiculous. You’re my twin.”

“You haven’t heard my story yet.”

She stared at him, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Clay appeared thinner than she’d remembered. His hair was uncombed, and the mischievous glint in his eye was noticeably absent. “Well?”

“Can we go inside?”

Claire nodded. “Of course.”

They entered her front room. “Hungry?”

He nodded. Claire scrounged up a frozen pizza and opened a liter of diet soda while Clay freshened up. Then, in between bites, she listened to
her brother’s sad story. Clay’s day in court hadn’t been pretty. He was found guilty of public drunkenness, violation of his restricted driver’s license, and assault and battery. But after listening to Clay’s attorney explain his family’s situation, and the turmoil Clay experienced from being at risk for HD, the judge softened and convened a conference among all the involved parties. The plaintiff’s attorney agreed to a reduced sentence if Clay would behave. Judge Wilkins sentenced Clay to a thousand dollars to pay the pilot’s dental bills, and took away his driver’s license. He agreed with Clay’s lawyer who argued to keep Clay out of prison, but made the judgment contingent on two conditions.

Clay looked up meekly from his pepperoni pizza.

“Just what conditions are you referring to?”

“I agreed to live with a responsible adult who will supervise my sobriety and will sign a log documenting my attendance at AA meetings three times a week.” He shrugged. “And I have to find work within thirty days.”

“Find work? What about the cabinet shop?”

“Got fired.”

He turned back to his dinner. She studied him for a moment. She’d never seen him this low, this vulnerable. “Wait a minute. What responsible adult agreed to supervise your sobriety?”

He continued staring at the paper plate in front of him. “You did,” he said quietly.

“I did?” She pushed back her chair. “Clay!”

“My attorney wrote the letter. He said I only needed to get you to sign it.”

“So where’s the letter?”

Clay held up his hand. “I knew you would sign it, if you had the time, so I, well, I—”

“You forged my signature!” She began to pace. “Clay, you could get in big trouble for this.”

Clay looked up without speaking. In his eyes, Claire saw only dullness. He slumped forward and dropped his eyes to the table. “Judge Wilkins was pretty impressed by your letter. He said he was glad at least one McCall had made something of herself.”

Claire sighed and sat across from her brother. “He’s a jerk, Clay. You’ve made something of yourself. I’ve seen the furniture you’ve made. You’re gifted.”

“I have no job. No driver’s license. No money. And everyone says I’m a chip off the old block ‘cause I drink too much.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “And all I think about is ending up just like Dad.” He pressed his hand to his mouth to cover a burp. “You should see him, Claire. It’s
awful.” He paused, and she noticed his hands trembling. Evidently Clay noticed it too, as he quickly clasped his hands together. “I’d rather die than end up like that.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You haven’t seen him.”

“Clay, just because Dad has Huntington’s disease doesn’t mean you’ll get it. There is an equal chance that you won’t.”

“That’s what Mom keeps telling me. But in my gut, I know I’m the one. If any of us end up like Dad, it’ll be me.”

“We all have the same risk, Clay. Why torture yourself without knowing? Have you thought of being tested like Margo?”

“I can’t afford it. Besides, I think I already know the answer.”

“I’m sure Grandma McCall would pay.” She reached for his hand. “And you can’t know the answer without a test. You have a right to be afraid, but you really can’t be sure.”

“Are you getting tested?”

“Not for now. I would like to know I’m not going to get HD, but I’m not ready to hear the opposite news.”

“Really.” Clay pushed back from the table and took his plate to the sink. When he was busy washing up the pizza pan, he asked, “So can I stay?”

Claire studied him for a moment. “How long?”

“I don’t know.”

She put her hands on her hips.
It is kind of nice not being alone in this house.
“You can stay until you find work and are established in a regular AA routine.”

Clay cleared his throat and set his freshly washed plate on the counter with a clatter. “Oops.” His hands trembled as he scooted the plate back from the edge.

Claire walked behind him into the front living room, observing him as he restlessly scratched first his right shoulder, then his stomach.

“I have a spare bedroom upstairs, but no bed.” She pointed to the couch. “So this is the guest quarters for now.”

Clay plopped down and immediately began tapping his foot.

He seems wired, nervous as a cat. What if he’s getting alcohol withdrawal?
“When’s the last time you had a drink?”

“I haven’t been drinking much, Claire. Really. I got it under control.”

She eyed him as she walked to the front closet to retrieve a pillow and a blanket. She dropped them on the floor beside the couch and walked up to her bathroom. She inspected her gray suit, one she’d purchased specifically for the trial and depositions, and frowned at a grass stain on the left
elbow. She slipped off the jacket as the phone began to ring. “Can you get that?” she called. She listened for a moment, and then, satisfied that Clay had picked it up, returned her attention to her clothing. Her nylons had a hole in the left knee. She pulled them off and wadded them into a ball. She dropped them into a plastic trash can beside the commode and then walked to the top of the stairs. She heard Clay hang up the phone.

“Who was that?” she called.

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “No one said anything.”

Roger Jones, I bet.
With the experience she’d just had with Mr. Jones, she imagined him sitting at home seething, dreaming up ways to make her life miserable. She’d made a mistake, and he wasn’t the type to let her forget it. At least not in this lifetime.

She heard Clay open the refrigerator.
Probably looking for beer. Oh well, I’d rather have my mooching brother visiting than sleep in an empty house.

She changed out of her formal suit and looked at the clock. It was time to think about getting some sleep. Rounds at six-thirty would be painful if she stayed up too late talking to Clay.

I’ve never seen him so down.

She turned her head and listened to the sound of a starting car.
My neighbor’s car sounds just as old as mine.

She walked down the creaky steps. “I’m going to be leaving pretty early in the morning so just … Clay?” She skipped through the front room to the kitchen, where she closed an open cabinet door. “Clay?” She returned to the hall where she knocked on the bathroom door. “Clay?”

His suitcase was open on the living-room floor. She ran her hand across the desktop where she normally deposited her car keys. She pulled back the front curtain, her heart quickening. Her Toyota was gone.

She pounded her fist on the front door and vented. “Clay!”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

C
laire sighed and paced her living room wondering what to do. She could call the cops, have Clay arrested for driving without a license, or even car theft, but that didn’t seem to be appropriate.
He’s probably just making a beer run, or looking for a bar.
Too wired for sleep, she flipped on the news and stared at the TV screen. After thirty minutes, she decided to call her mom, who picked up after the first ring.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mom. Were you sitting on top of the phone?”

Her voice was edgy. “I was just expecting a call. How are you, dear?”

“I’m okay.” She pulled back the curtain to look in the empty driveway. “Clay came for a visit.”

A sigh escaped Della’s lips. “Oh, God, thank you.” Her voice became muffled. “Wally, Clay’s at Claire’s.”

“Mom? Is everything okay? You’re breathing hard.”

“Yes, yes, everything’s okay, at least better now that you’ve called. Clay is with you?”

“Well, not right now, but he’s in Lafayette.” Claire didn’t understand.

“I’ll have to tell the sheriff. I was so afraid he’d done something stupid,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. She sniffed. “I was so sure he was dead. I thought he’d killed himself for sure.”

“Mom, slow down. What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“He told me about the trial, and how his lawyer sweet-talked him out of jail, and how I’m supposed to be supervising—”

“The trial?”

“Yes, he—”

“He didn’t show up, Claire. Clay ran. His trial was to start this morning. But Clay never showed up.” Della’s voice became muffled again. “Wally. Our boy’s alive!”

“But he told me that Judge Wilkins worked a deal with Clay’s attorney so he could avoid jail time and—”

“Clay lied, honey. He was scared to death. His lawyer told him there was no way to avoid going to jail. But Clay’s been so down lately. We thought for sure”—her voice cracked—“he was dead.” She sniffed again. “Oh, this is such good news.” Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “I’m not sure Wally could have taken it if Clay had taken his life. Wally’s been so concerned about him. I think he feels bad for the father he’s been, and he keeps trying to reach out to Clay.”

Claire shook her head, trying to imagine her father caring about anyone but himself. “Dad?”

“It’s true, honey. Your father is a sick man. He knows his days are numbered. And since Dr. V started him on an antidepressant, his mood is so much better. Wally keeps telling me every day that he wants to make up for his drinking.”

Claire didn’t know what to say. If her father was changing, she’d have to see it to believe it.

Della continued. “Oh, Claire, you’ll have to keep him there. Don’t let Clay run off again.”

“Well, er … he’s not here right now. That’s one reason I called. He left in my car about an hour ago. I think he must be out looking for a drink.”

“Oh, dear. Your car? How’d he get there?”

Claire scratched her head. “I really don’t know. I assumed he flew. But maybe he took a bus. He didn’t have his truck here.”

“Oh, Claire, he totaled his truck last week.” Della blew out her breath into the phone. “That boy’s life is falling apart. Now he’s going to be in deeper trouble for skipping out on his trial.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll talk to him. He can’t run forever.”

Della sniffed. “Tell him to come home.”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll call after I talk to Clay.”

Claire hung up the phone and snapped off the TV, then collapsed on the couch to wait for Clay. By twelve-thirty, her fatigue overtook her anger, and she fell into a fitful sleep.

Thump, thump, thump.
Claire rolled over and pried open her eyes. Was someone knocking?

Thump, thump,
then the sound of the doorbell.
Clay!
Claire squinted at the digital readout on the front of the TV.
Two-thirty! I’m going to kill him. I don’t care if he is my brother.

Thump, thump.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

She thought about jerking open the door and giving Clay an ultimatum. Instead, she took a deep breath and reminded herself of Clay’s situation. She lifted the curtain from the front window and gasped. Police!

She opened the door and looked up into the face of a Lafayette policeman. He looked at the paper in his hand. “Ms. McCall?”

Her lip trembled. “Yes?”

The uniformed man stood head and shoulders above his partner. “I’m Officer Carl Stephens, Lafayette PD.” He nodded toward his associate. “This is Officer Dean Blakemore. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Her jaw slackened.

“There’s been an accident. Are you Mrs. Clay McCall?”

“No. Clay’s my brother.”

She watched as the two officers exchanged glances.

“Accident? Is Clay okay?”

“He was taken to the university hospital.”

“How did you find me?”

“The car he was driving was registered in your name.”

“How’s Clay?”

“We only heard that he made it to the hospital alive. Some surgery resident happened by the accident and saved him.”

“Where was he?”

“Driving out the beach road toward the ocean. The car went off the road near the old Smithland Shoals Lighthouse.”

Claire knew the road well. She’d driven it many times on her way to the beach. The road was curvy, the drop-offs on the ocean side steep and rocky.

“Was anyone else hurt?”

The officer shook his head. “No. It was a single-vehicle accident.”

She slumped, supporting herself against the door frame. “I need to see him.”